Читать книгу All About Us - Tom Ellen - Страница 10

London, 24 December 2020

‘So … are you coming, or not?’

‘I mean, obviously I can come. If you want me to?’

Daphne breathes out heavily, but still resolutely refuses to make eye contact. ‘Do you want to come?’ she asks her reflection in the mirror.

I loiter by the bare Christmas tree, picking at stray needles. ‘Well, if you reckon I should, then maybe. I guess.’

She snaps the brush back into her mascara bottle with impressive force. ‘Ben, seriously. I’m starting to feel like Jeremy Paxman here. Can you just give me a yes or no?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Will they be expecting me? I came last year.’

‘Yes, and what a great success that was,’ she says to the ceiling, and there’s a pause where we both remember what a great success that was.

‘Listen …’ she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s Christmas Eve drinks at my boss’s. I don’t even particularly want to go, so there’s no reason why I should drag you along too.’

‘Well, like I say, I’m happy to come if you want me to.’ She ignores this completely, so I add: ‘But you clearly fucking don’t.’

Finally she spins round to look at me. ‘I want you to come if you’re going to actually talk to people and try to have a good time. I don’t want you to come if you’re going to stand in the corner like a grumpy arsehole. OK?’

She snatches up her bag and walks out into the hallway.

Daff is of the opinion that fights are A Good Thing in a relationship. A Healthy Thing. Or at least she used to be of that opinion, back when our fights weren’t really fights, but silly little flare-ups over nothing. I’d get sulky at her for taking too long to get ready, or she’d shout at me for farting or imperfectly folding a bedsheet. And then after a volley of yells, we’d break off, hugging and giggling at the idea that we’d caught ourselves bickering like a sad old couple.

But at some point during the last couple of years, something changed. That fun phoney-war play-fighting turned into this awful tight-lipped trench combat; each of us working doggedly to gain an inch of ground over the other, occasionally lobbing a passive-aggressive grenade into no man’s land.

How did we get here? I wonder. From calmly discussing our evening plans to bitter, seething resentment in – what was it – a minute and a half? That’s got to be some kind of spontaneous marital-spat world record. Because the truth is, everything seems to lead to a fight nowadays. Every nod or murmur or question feels loaded and potentially explosive, like it has to be patted down carefully for hidden meaning. I’m pretty sure this is my fault – in fact, I know it is. It’s all tangled up with everything that’s happened over the past couple of years, and my general sense of self-worth dribbling slowly down the plughole. I can see the problems clear as day, I just can’t figure out how to fix them. Maybe they can’t be fixed.

I follow Daff out into the hallway, where she’s now yanking her long, curly black hair into a bun and fastening it with one of those Venus flytrappy things. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just always feel like such a spare part at these things. I can feel them all looking straight through me when I’m speaking.’

‘Ben, that’s not true,’ she snaps. ‘And if it is true’ – which means she knows it is – ‘then maybe it’s because you make literally no effort with anyone.’

‘I do make an effort,’ I protest, but we both know this is bollocks. I stopped making an effort a long time ago. Not just with small talk – with everything.

She grabs her coat off the banister, and sighs. ‘Look, don’t worry, honestly,’ she says. ‘You know what these things are like. It’ll just be boring work chat. If I go now, I can be back by ten.’

‘OK, fine,’ I say, and the look of relief that flashes across her face confirms something I’ve suspected for a while: that I’ve become a weight on her at these events. Or worse than a weight: an embarrassment.

Daff is a literary agent. She works for a big, important company and her clients are all big, important authors and screenwriters. Attending one of her work dos is like lowering yourself into a boiling cauldron of success – you’re never more than six feet from a BAFTA winner or a Booker Prize judge. So I suppose I can’t blame her for cringing slightly when I’m mumbling to these people about how I knock out the odd press release for a living. It doesn’t make me feel great either. The truth is, I’ve spent a lot of time lately wondering what Daphne is still doing with me, and at this thing tonight, I know everyone else will be wondering it too.

‘Is you-know-who going to be there?’ I ask, as she shrugs her coat on. ‘The Big Man?’

I’m hoping this might make her laugh, just to prove I can still do that, at least. Even a sarcastic hollow chuckle would suit me fine. But instead she just rolls her eyes.

‘Yes, Rich will be there. Is that honestly why you don’t want to come?’

‘No, of course not. I was only—’

‘Because you don’t have to talk to him, you know. You could try and talk to some new people.’

‘No, I know. Well, he pretty much ignores me anyway, so …’

‘Maybe if you actually tried to be friendly, instead of sulking like a little kid?’

And yep. Back we go. Like I say: all roads lead to a fight.

Which is crazy, really, because Rich used to be one of our most reliable private jokes. A dependable classic we could always fall back on.

He joined the agency around the same time Daphne did, and since he looks like he’s been laboratory-designed to worry insecure husbands, the idea of her copping off with him quickly became a running gag between us. If I burned the toast or something, she might sigh dramatically and murmur, ‘I bet Rich is a great cook …’ Or if I went out for the night, leaving Daff home alone, I’d bid her goodbye with ‘Tell Rich I said hi,’ and she’d mime oh-shit-I’ve-been-busted as I walked away laughing.

But like all our other private jokes, this one seems to have curdled and hardened. Whether this is down to her actually starting to fancy Rich, or me just suspecting she might, I’ve no idea. He’s definitely a major-league shagger (Daphne once told me, ‘If Tinder was a computer game, Rich would have completed it,’ which I found both hilarious and slightly intimidating), but I don’t think there’s anything between them. The idea that there might be does hit me occasionally, like a punch in the gut. I guess I just can’t figure out why Daphne wouldn’t be interested in him. Or maybe she is interested in him, but she’s just not the kind of person who would do something about it.

I think suddenly about the messages from Alice, squirrelled away secretly on my phone. I’m exactly that kind of person, apparently.

When it comes down to it, I suppose that’s the reason Daphne’s still with me: because of the things she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know about Alice; she doesn’t know about Paris. She knows about Mum, obviously, but she doesn’t know the things I said to her before it happened. Things that still choke me awake in the middle of the night.

After fifteen years together, and four years of marriage, she doesn’t really know me at all. If she did, then surely she wouldn’t still be here.

She clicks open the front door, and makes to step out into the cold early-evening gloom. ‘I’d better go,’ she says, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, frowning at the doormat. ‘We can talk later. It’s just … Work is so draining at the moment, and then I come back here and it’s … even more draining, you know?’ She breaks off and fixes me with her big hazelnut-brown eyes, and she looks tired and really – genuinely – unhappy. And my insides freeze, because I’m suddenly sure she’s about to say something: something big and awful and final.

But then she glances through into the living room at the Christmas tree, and shakes her head, as if remembering that this is not traditionally the season for big, awful, final announcements.

‘Anyway, we can talk later,’ she says again. ‘And don’t worry about the thing tonight – I’ll think of something. Tell everyone you needed to put the decorations up, maybe.’ She looks again at the naked tree. ‘Actually, that wouldn’t technically be lying, would it?’

‘I’ll do it as soon as you’re gone, I promise. And the presents.’

She nods. Then she steps outside, shuts the door and she’s gone. And even though nothing was actually said, I can still feel the storm clouds gathering inside my head. We can talk later. She said that twice. But talk about what?

The word DIVORCE stamps itself onto my brain, making me physically flinch. Is that what she wants? Could it even secretly be what I want? The thought of it makes my stomach lurch, but I don’t know if it’s the idea of losing Daphne, or the shame of being divorced at thirty-four.

Another failure to add to my already ridiculously long list.

But I can’t think about this stuff right now. Daphne’s parents, sister, brother-in-law and their kids are all arriving at midday tomorrow, and there’s still a hell of a lot to be done before then. I should really head straight up to the attic to get the decorations, then sort the tree out and crack on with wrapping the presents.

That’s what I should do.

Instead, though, I decide to go and get drunk.